


Into The Fire

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Remix, anti-malcolm, anti-milah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle hates working for Malcolm Gold and Rumple knows his father will never help him. It doesn't stop them both to be in the old man's debt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.  
>  **Verse** : Don't Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix  
>  **Beta** : MaddieBonanaFana

Serving tables. That had to be worse than this. Not only was the _Rabbit Hole_ full of inebriated men who did not know how to keep their hands to themselves, the tips were miserable, and Belle would often have to wipe vomit off the floor with a smile on her face. Not to mention that balancing glasses on a tray had never been her strongest suit.

Being Malcolm Gold's maid was unpleasant, but at least he didn't puke on a regular basis, only on special occasions. She had to be extra careful with his things; after all, breaking a beer glass at a pub was one thing, but a precious china plate that had belonged to his mother, or whatever that thing was, would only increase their debt. And yes, when it came down to it, being a waitress had been her choice, while this was a last resource, but so far it was working out well enough.

Except that, at the _Rabbit Hole_ , there had been Leroy, who didn't think twice before protecting her from the more aggressive drunks. Leroy never stood for ungentlemanly behavior, and would surely punch Malcolm Gold in the nose if he knew just how much the old man liked to fumble with her skirt. That is, if only he could. But he couldn't. In this house, Belle was all alone. It didn't matter that Gold was too smart to go beyond the occasional grabbing, she simply didn't feel safe whenever the old man was around.

No. Working for Malcolm Gold was, by far, the worst job Belle had ever had in her entire life. The man was obnoxious, conceited, and deliberately cruel. He never passed an opportunity to remind her just why she was there, acting as if giving her a job had been an act of charity on his part, painting himself as the Savior who had offered Belle and her father a way out of their debts. The truth was anything but. If he truly wanted to be charitable, he'd just have granted Moe French an extension, instead of turning his daughter into a maid.

Of course, that hadn't been his first proposition. But the thought of letting such a monster lay his hands on her once, let alone the fifteen times he had asked for (“It was quite a large investment, Miss French.”), was enough to make her gag. At the age of sixty, no one could say Malcolm Gold was an unattractive man, Belle could see how he easily charmed young women into the house. But she found him repugnant nonetheless. For as long as she could remember, he had always looked at her as if she were equally despicable and desirable, and that had always made her uncomfortable in his presence.

Gold hadn't taken the rejection well, but within twenty four hours he turned his threats to chase them out of town into a compromise: Belle would work off the debt for the next three years by working under his employment.

And that was why she was currently pouring Scotch into a glass, freezing to her bones because her uniform was so short it verged on indecent. This deal had been a bad idea, and as soon as she thought of an alternative to it, she'd be out of Gold's house without thinking twice.

Or so she told herself for the past six months.

“Take your time, Princess,” the old man said, sitting right behind her, and she couldn't identify whether he was being sarcastic or flirtatious. For sure his eyes were on her thighs, she could feel it. But what else was new?

It didn't take Belle a whole week on the job to realize what Gold was doing. His deal hadn't been charity, but his personal way of punishing her for the rejection. Six days a week, she was inside his house, doing everything short of taking her clothes off to make him happy. The more demeaning the task, the better. Everything had to be done by hand, even though there were appliances that could make the same thing in half the time. Everything had to be done at least twice, to make sure it was done correctly.

“Someone has to get you off your high horse, _Princess_ ,” he sneered on the first day, after ordering Belle to polish every piece of silverware he had with a product that made her fingertips burn.

That quickly became her new title inside his house. _Princess._ A word he pronounced with the utmost contempt, as if Belle were a spoiled girl who had been sent to him specifically to correct her behavior.

Belle knew he wasn't trying to wear her down, so that she'd eventually accept his original offer. If anything, she was sure that she could come to him on her knees now, and he'd take great pleasure in refusing her – at least, at first. What Gold wanted was to remind her of their respective places in life. He was Malcolm Gold, millionaire, businessman, owner of Storybrooke. He was Important. Belle was the daughter of a nobody, penniless, uneducated. People like _him_ should not be refused by arrogant bitches like _her_. She was only good enough to wash his underwear, in cold water, and by hand.

“Big plans for your Sunday, Princess?” Gold asked, as Belle presented the glass of Scotch on a silver tray and awaited to be dismissed.

“You don't pay me so we can talk, Mr. Gold,” Belle answered. She might be unimportant, but that didn't mean she had to be friendly.

Gold laughed. “I don't pay you at all! Then again, if I knew you'd look so good in your uniform, I might have. As long as you agreed to keep your pretty mouth shut.”

As if to prove a point, he tugged at her short skirt. Belle slapped his hand away, as she was used to. As always, that made him smirk, amused by her resistance. Belle didn't know if he found it funny because, in his delusional mind, she would eventually give in and allow him to do much more than just pulling at her skirt, or because he liked to make her uncomfortable. Belle found him repellent, and yet she still belonged to him.

“If you don't need me anymore, I'll be off, sir.”

“Can't think of anything else for you to do,” he said, and Belle knew he was trying. Gold lied back in his chair, the king of his own little kingdom of Storybrooke, Maine. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I expect you early on Monday, so that you can start on the Spring Cleaning.”

It was only February 2nd, but she didn't point that out. Every now and then, Gold wanted her to clean the entire house thoroughly for his own amusement. The whole thing was daunting and would only leave her sore, since there was always a lot of heavy lifting to be done. He'd call it Autumn Cleaning, or Christmas Cleaning, or whatever he wanted, to pretend it was a legitimate task.

“Whatever you want, Mr. Gold,” Belle said.

“Good girl,” he replied, and Belle expected him to pat her on the head.

Without wishing him a goodnight, Belle made her way to the laundry room, where she kept her clothes. She had requested, and it was written in the contract, a locker with a key that only she was to have access to. Mr. Gold might not be stupid to attack her in his own house, but she didn't think he was above snooping through her things, or nicking something just to annoy her. Getting rid of her uniform, she slipped into something much more comfortable, and warmer. For the next twenty four hours, she didn't want to think of Malcolm Gold, and what it was like to be his private slave.

But just as she reached for the knob on the backdoor, the front door bell rang loudly through the entire house.

“I know you're still there, Princess,” Gold said, sounding like a parent who just caught a naughty child trying to sneak away.

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” she sighed, defeated. Only twenty eight more months to go.

She didn't bother changing to her uniform. If Gold wanted to have words with her for it, so be it. The house was _freezing!_ She made her way to the front of the house and put on a smile, expecting to meet either his lawyer or the latest young lady he was trying to woo into his bed. In six months working for him, Belle had seen him receive no other visitors.

However, the person standing on the front porch was a complete stranger, who stared at her like a dear caught in headlights.

“May I help you?” she asked, too tired to sound polite.

The stranger checked the number on the door quickly, then looked back at Belle. “Does Malcolm Gold still live here?”

“He does,” she confirmed. “Who should I announce?”

His eyes were sunken, and as tired as hers. When he asked the next question, Belle could identify a note of panic in his voice. “Are you his wife?”

Belle couldn't help but grimace. “I am just his maid.”

“Who is it, Princess?” came her employer's voice, all the way from his study. Gold used her pet name in front of strangers regularly, but she doubted she'd ever get used to the shame of it.

To his credit, the stranger didn't seem amused by it.

“Who should I announce?” she asked.

He hesitated, “I... perhaps this was...”

“ _Princess_?” Gold demanded, impatient.

“Rumple,” he finally said. “Rumple. I'm his son.”

Belle was so taken aback that, for a moment, all she could do was stare. Just like everyone else in town, she was aware that Mr. Gold had a son. It sometimes came up in gossip. But the details of their relationship were scarce. “Not even his son could stand him” was all that people usually said about the matter.

Looking at him now, Belle struggled to find the resemblance. Gold's son had frightful eyes, where his father's were bright and alert. Gold was well built, while his son looked scrawny, almost fragile. Unlike his father, who always dressed sharply, he was wearing a suit that had seen better days. Belle found some similarity in his hands, with long, delicate fingers, that he had crossed on top of a cane, waiting for her. When the thunderous voice demanded again, _“Princess!”_ he shook from head to toe.

“It's your son, Mr. Gold,” she answered. “Should I tell him to come to your study?”

There was a moment of silence. Gold's son fumbled with his cane, eyes going from hers to the floor. They waited. Then, the other man showed up at the door of his study, on the other side of the corridor.

The son – Rumple, was it? - swayed back, as if he was considering getting away. Not that Belle would blame him if he did. If Gold had been looking at _her_ like that, she'd be running the other way as well. She had been the target of that sort of look before, and it usually meant a severe scolding. The kind that listed all the ways she was an idiot.

“Well, well, look at that,” Gold said, no trace of affection in his words.

Rumple must have picked on that, because he finally caved in and took a step back. “I should go-”

“Put the kettle on, Princess,” Gold cut in. “This is gonna be good. And, _for goodness' sake_! Dress accordingly! You're still in service.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” she sighed, knowing that explanations would only make everything worse. She took a step back. “Right this way, Mr. Gold.”

He hesitated, eyes on his father, but decided to come in. Gold disappeared inside his study, and Belle started guiding the son there, when he said, “It's fine. I know the way.” As soon as both men were behind a closed door, she went back to the laundry room to change.

 

*

 

“That's new,” his father said, pointing at the cane as soon as Rumple entered the room.

“It isn't new,” he replied. “I've had it for seven years.”

Malcolm shrugged. “I've never seen it.”

“That's because we haven't talked in a decade.”

Another shrug. He was acting too calm and Rumple didn't like it. His father had always been good at keeping his temper under control, but the last two years of their relationship had been spent with regular shouting matches, and that was what he'd returned to Storybrooke prepared for. Instead, his father was sitting in his armchair, collected and rational, a glass of Scotch in his hand. The bastard didn't even seem to have aged, while Rumple felt like a hundred-year-old man. Probably looked like it, too.

“How did you get it?” Malcolm asked, pointing at the leg.

“Fell down the stairs.”

The old man laughed. “You've always been clumsy.”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

Malcolm pointed at the couch to their right. Rumple made a point at sitting at the farthest end, which got another laught from his father.

He said, “I don't bite.”

Rumple replied, “I don't care.” But then shook his head. He shouldn't be acting so hostile. His father was a proud man, if he kept up the attitude, then he'd leave the house with nothing. Not that he thought his chances were very good to begin with. The last words Malcolm had shouted in his face had been to leave town and never come back, an order that Rumple would have been more than glad to obey, if circumstances had allowed him.

“You know that I am here because I need help,” Rumple said.

Malcolm nodded. “I assumed. But you know that I am not in the business of charity-”

“I didn't here come for money,” he explained, shutting the other man up. “It's more complicated than that.”

Now he had his father's attention.

Better just come out and say it.

“I divorced Milah.”

He waited for the laughter that was sure to follow, but it didn't come. When he raised his eyes, Malcolm had a smug smile on his lips, but he covered it with a sip of Scotch. When the glass came down, he said, “My sympathies. When was that?”

“Last year.”

“Must have been difficult.”

“Of course it was difficult. I had to spend every penny I had.” After a pause, he confessed, “I had to spend Baelfire's college fund.”

“Expensive lawyers.”

“It wasn't just the lawyers. I had to get away.”

Malcolm frowned, intrigued for the first time.

Rumple opened his mouth, but shut it quickly when the door to the study opened. The maid came back, carrying a large tray with a teapot and cups. She had changed into her uniform, just as Malcolm had instructed, and Rumple fought the urge to offer her his coat because his father's regard for women didn't seem to have evolved one bit. The uniform he had offered the poor girl was barely enough to keep her covered. The skirt was too short, the cleavage was too low. It was a surprise that the old man had opted for navy blue, and not succumbed to his own twisted mind and put her in a french maid fetish costume altogether. The whole house was freezing, but there was a light blush to her cheeks as she came closer. That had probably not been her first choice of clothing, especially not in front of a stranger. Rumple wondered just how much Malcolm was paying her.

“Ah, tea!” Malcolm announced, watching Belle put down the tray. His father seemed to be in a very good mood, despite the fact that he was back in the house. “Just what we needed, isn't that right, Junior?”

The maid looked at him, but Rumple looked away. It was clear that she didn't appreciate wearing that uniform at all, there was no reason to add to her stress.

“What do you have for us, Princess?”

She said, “Chamomile, Mr. Gold. I can fetch something else if-”

“Chamomile is _perfect_ for the occasion,” he boasted. “Junior could use something to calm his nerves.”

“How would you like your tea, Mr. Gold?”

It took Rumple a moment to realize that “Mr. Gold” was him, and not his father. He said, “I can prepare it myself-”

“Nonsense! That is what I pay her for, isn't that right, Belle?”

She smiled coldly in response. After Rumple admitted that a spoon of sugar would be enough, Belle started working.

Malcolm said, “Now, son, what was it you were saying?”

Rumple glanced at the maid again. She seemed focused on the tea, but he still said, “I'd rather we discussed this privately.”

“Oh, Junior! Belle is practically family!” Malcolm said, and Rumple could have swore he saw the girl roll her eyes. “Isn't that right, Belle?”

“If you say so, Mr. Gold.”

His father leaned closer to her. She flinched, but didn't move away. He whispered, rather loudly, “Junior is just a little ashamed because his marriage is over-”

“Dad!” he tried to cut in, but the older man wouldn't hear of it.

“And now he is in a bit of _financial_ trouble. Not unlike yourself.”

Belle's hand stilled as she was stirring the sugar with a spoon, and the heat on her cheeks seemed to intensify. But she recovered quickly and placed the saucers in front of each man, before getting up and announcing, “I will give you both some privacy.”

“No, stand over there, we might need you,” Gold said, pointing at the corner right behind him.

Rumple stared at his father, feeling the color being drained from his face. He hadn't expected to do this with an audience, and if the girl were to stand where his father was pointing to, he'd have no choice but to look at her.

She must have realized that as well, because she suggested, “Maybe I should wait outside, just so that you gentlemen can speak more freely-”

“No, stand over there,” his father insisted, still pointing at the same corner.

With a final look that seemed to say “sorry, I tried,” Belle pressed her back to the wall and lowered he eyes to the floor, trying to make herself invisible. It was no good. She was still there. Rumple could still see her. The whole ordeal had just become even more difficult.

“You were saying?” Malcolm pressed, taking a sip of his tea.

“I was saying,” he restarted, cautious, “that I had to leave Boston. Right after the divorce.”

Malcolm chuckled. “You left the boy behind? Well, I didn't think you had it in-”

“I got sole custody.”

Malcolm shut up immediately.

Rumple explained, “I got sole custody. Milah's not allowed to see him.”

Malcolm nodded. “That is... rather impressive, Junior. How did you manage that?”

Rumple shrugged.

“I mean,” his father insisted, “I take it the courts usually favor the mother in these situations.”

“Usually.”

“Not this time?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they didn't,” he snapped, refusing to take the bait.

Malcolm Gold smiled, cold, calculating. Rumple could be as stubborn as he wanted, it didn't matter. His father was still the one controlling the situation.

“All I am saying is that she must have screwed up _horrendously._ ”

“She keeps trying to see Bae,” Rumple proceeded, throwing the story forward. “At first, I thought it was a matter of getting a restraining order, that that would get her to-”

“You got a _restraining order_ against that girl?” his father repeated, as if he had never heard something so amusing before.

“ _That girl_ is my ex-wife, and she is definitely not a girl anymore,” Rumple snapped again. “Would you like me to shut up so you can say 'I told you so'?”

“Please, don't!” he said. “This is the best story I've heard in _ages_!”

Rumple looked at his father, baffled, although he wasn't sure why exactly he was so surprised. Behind him, Belle had raised her eyes from the floor and was staring at the back of the man's head, eyes intense with disgust.

“Did you just let me in to taunt me?” he asked.

Malcolm said, “I let you in because I was curious.”

“About what? How much I screwed up my life because I didn't listen to you?”

“Yes.”

Rumple got up so fast he bumped on the coffee table, spilling the untouched tea. Belle gasped, but didn't move. Blood was pumping loudly in his ears, compelling him to cover the short distance to the other man and punch him. But just the effort of getting up from the couch was too much, and his leg started throbbing before he had the chance to take one step. The reminder of the old wound was enough to hold him in place, before he did something stupid.

Malcolm looked at him, peaceful. He hadn't even flinched.

“I don't regret not listening to you,” Rumple said. Malcolm didn't seem convinced by it, but it was the truth, and it didn't matter that he didn't believe it. “I don't regret marrying Milah. And I sure as hell don't regret my son. So far, my only regret is hoping you'd have changed, and that, _maybe_ , you'd be willing to help me.”

He paused, allowing his father to say something. He didn't. Not even his serene expression had changed.

“As this is not the case,” Rumple continued, “my son is waiting for me. We have to find a solution to our situation. Goodnight.” He glanced at the maid, and added, “And give that girl a coat, dad. That uniform makes you look like an _old_ pervert.”

Something passed through his face at the mention of _old_. Anger, maybe. Or perhaps the word had filled him with shame. It was a small victory, but at least he could walk away knowing he had hurt the old man, even if just a little bit.

Rumple turned to leave.

His father spoke. “You haven't said what you need from me.”

“Is there even a point to it?” Rumple asked.

“There might be.”

He knew better than to be hopeful, so he didn't say a word.

“You say Milah is trying to see your son,” Malcolm recalled. “And that a restraining order is not enough to keep her away. The fact that you have a restraining order, at all, means she's doing more than just being persistent. Public scandals? Showing up at your job? Bae's schools?”

Rumple didn't answer.

His father turned to Belle and said, “She looked the part, Princess. You should have seen her. Such a trashy girl.”

Belle glanced up, but stared at the floor again, muttering, “It is none of my business, Mr. Gold.”

“It's none of mine either, but here we are- Oh, Junior, don't be dramatic!” he shouted, when Rumple tried to leave again, making him stop at the door. “It doesn't become you. We both know you wouldn't have lasted five minutes in this room if you weren't really desperate. So tell me, if it isn't money, what is it that you need from me?”

Rumple held on to the doorknob. He should leave. All his father wanted was to have the pleasure of hearing him plead for help, just to tell him no. He'd have to find another way. He always found another way.

 _Not when it comes to Milah_ , something whispered in his mind. _She's always one step ahead. She's too clever. And when it comes down to it, what can you do with a fifteen-year-old? Hop from city to city until he has to drop out of school and find a job because you can't hold on to one?_

Slowly, he let go of the doorknob and, even though every fiber of his being was urging him to leave, he turned back to his father and said, “We need a place to stay.”

Malcolm played dumb. “And you thought that you could stay here?”

“This isn't my first choice,” Rumple said, angry. “In fact, if this was about me, I wouldn't have come. But I still have my boy and I have to put him first. I need a place to stay where Milah won't think of looking. And even if she _does,_ a place she wouldn't dare come, and she is afraid of you.”

“Never felt like it,” Malcolm muttered.

“Well, she is.”

“So you are _running_ from her,” he concluded, and the idea seemed to delight him.

“ _Yes_!” Rumple finally admitted. “I am running from my crazy ex-wife, who wants to kidnap my son, or worse!”

“He was never very good at keeping that girl under control,” Malcolm remarked to Belle, who didn't even tilt her head up, instead acting as if she couldn't hear him.

Rumple opened his mouth to shout that _no one_ could keep Milah under control, but decided against it. If he did that, his father would start asking questions, and he didn't want to talk about Milah anymore, especially with his father. He wouldn't understand the sheer hell that the last fifteen years had been. If anything, he'd probably laugh with his maid about it.

 _Poor Junior never had much of a backbone, Princess. Is it really that surprising that his wife just did whatever she wanted with him? If only he were a_ real man _. Perhaps then he wouldn't have a limp. And maybe he wouldn't have had to escape with his son in the middle of the night so that-_

“You are not going to help me,” Rumple concluded, quieting the voices in his head.

“No,” Malcolm finally said. “I am not in the business of doing charity.”

“Well, I hope this was sufficiently amusing,” he said, turning around again.

“But I am in the business of doing _business_ ,” Malcolm added. “I still have the pawnshop.”

This time, Rumple didn't let that stop him from opening the door. “Why does that matter to me?”

“Because I have no one to run it.”

“You have no _interest_ in running it,” Rumple pointed out, one leg already in the hallway.

“No, I never had,” Malcolm agreed. “This town has no use for a pawnshop. I have no idea what your aunt was thinking when she opened it. But it is still there, and it is still mine. And everything you left behind is in there. I haven't touched it. Why would I?” He indicated his study with a broad gesture. “I have everything I need. But if there is something valuable in all that junk, you'd know.”

Rumple narrowed his eyes, still suspicious. “Yes?”

“So lets say... you make my inventory, maybe work there for a couple of months and, in exchange, you and your boy can stay here.”

Rumple frowned, thinking it over.

“This is a generous offer,” he said, but his voice didn't sound grateful. There was something wrong. There had to be a twist, something in fine print.

Malcolm didn't falter. “I can, on occasion, be a generous man. After all, you are family.”

The way he spoke it was lacking in feeling. Might as well be talking about the maid again. _Belle is practically family_ , he had said. Apparently, he was _practically_ family, too. Resentment started forming in the pit of his stomach, but then he looked at Belle and it died before it could bubble into anger. She was shaking her head, very discreetly, eyes large and alarming.

_Don't do it. Don't do it._

He wondered what her financial situation was like. Clearly, it wasn't her first choice to work for his father either. And by now, she probably knew the old man better than he did. She knew how unpleasant it could be to be in his debt.

But she wasn't Bae's father.

And she wasn't Milah's target.

However desperate Belle's situation was, it was nothing compared to his own.

“I need at least six months,” Rumple replied. “And I need to find a part-time job.”

“You're forcing my hand, Junior.”

“I'm doing a favor. You don't want me, my son, or our problems. Let me work so that I can save money and get out of your way.”

Malcolm considered it quickly, then said, “If that is what you want.”

“It is.”

“You can also help around the house, once the inventory is done. Belle can barely manage by herself.” He looked back at her. “Don't worry, Princess. I won't be cutting your hours. A deal is a deal.”

Belle didn't say a word. Her eyes were low again.

To him, Malcolm said, “Anything else that I should add to our contract?”

“Bae doesn't have to work.”

“Wouldn't dream of it!” Malcolm said, baffled at the suggestion. “He's fifteen! You know the legal crap I'd have to go through?”

“Figures.”

“Anything else?”

Rumple tapped the handle of his cane. He knew what he wanted to say, but it wasn't easy. Summoning as much courage as he could find, he said, “You have to keep Milah away until we leave.”

He hoped he was imagining that little tremor in his voice. He hoped his father couldn't hear the fear in his words.

Malcolm nodded, “That can be arranged.”

Rumple felt himself relaxing. It was done.

“I'll have a contract for you on Monday. You can move in then.”

That was two days. They only had to wait two more days. And then, they'd be safe.

Malcolm got up from his armchair. Ten years hadn't made him taller, but his son still felt small next to him. He offered his hand to be shaken.Rumple looked at it for a moment, going over the deal in his head, looking for something to discourage him. He eyed Belle again, but she didn't try to warn him against it this time.

Knowing it was too good to be true, that something was bound to go wrong, that his father couldn't be trusted – but that Milah was still out there, _looking_ – he shook Malcolm's hand.

“A gentlemen's agreement,” Malcolm smiled. “I will see you on Monday.” He let go of Rumple's hand and told Belle, “Princess, walk him out, and then come clean this mess. I have to call Jerry.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” Belle said, leaving her place by the wall and rushing to the door.

Rumple gave his father a final look. Malcolm was still smiling, victorious, as if he knew something that Rumple didn't. In all likelihood, that was true. Maybe he had just signed his soul to the devil, he just didn't know it yet. Without wishing him a goodnight, he followed Belle down the hallway.

“You don't approve of it,” Rumple said, when they got to the front door.

Belle looked at him. Despite the way Malcolm had her dress, she still looked like a child.

She said, “It doesn't matter. I'm sure you're looking out for your best interest. And your son's.”

“How is he?”

She gave herself a moment to think about it. “He's not a very good person.”

“Is that it?”

That seemed mild, compared to the image he had of his father. The Malcolm Gold he used to know was not only “not a very good person”, he was a rotten bastard.

Belle shrugged. “I wished you hadn't had to come here, sir.”

Her sympathy was endearing. After the humiliation he had just been put through – after Milah – it felt good to find friendliness in a stranger.

“I wish you didn't have to work for him,” he replied.

That managed to extract a tiny smile from her lips. “Aren't we unlucky?”

“ _Princess? What is taking you so long_?” came his voice, ever so demanding.

Belle sighed. “I will see you on Monday, Mr. Gold.”

“Hopefully, he will grow a heart until then,” he quipped.

Belel didn't laugh. She wasn't holding her breath.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A picspam for this series can be found here: http://annievh.tumblr.com/post/136443533432/dont-come-back-warnings-for-child-abuse-spouse
> 
> Behind Closed Doors can be found both in my Series list, and here: http://annievh.tumblr.com/post/102166515522/behind-closed-doors-warnings-domestic-abuse


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